Crap-filled joyride

During a phone conversation with a friend last night, I can safely say the phrase I heard from her mouth more than any other single phrase was "dog vomit." Sometimes it was alone, as a mantra: "Dog vomit dog vomit dog vomit" while other times it was partnered with descriptive terms, such as "a mountain of kibble dog vomit" and "STOP EATING THE DOG VOMIT!" Needless to say, my friend was not havin' the grandest night of her entire life, unless she secretly digs dog vomit and I just don't know it yet.

Well, now I know how the dog vomit feels.

I won't go into a lot of detail, because I really try not to talk about work here. But let's just say I spent four or five hours in the server room tonight after I'd already been home long enough to watch two episodes of General Hospital. Somebody needs to smack the fuck out of Carly. Sorry, it just needed to be said.

Anyhow, I've spent my night up to my ass in manic moodswings, from near tears girlie rage and frustration (sorry to those who were in the path of my bitch tornado) to hysterical giggles courtesy of my chah-mingly retarded husband. From ass-end mopey to really top drawer. It's been a bit of a roller coaster.

Back when Jim and I used to have pagers, on really bad days I'd text him: "Lovely wife here. My day is a crap-filled joyride" which meant he would likely be havin' dinner alone. Tonight was, I think I can say with some authority, a prime example of the crap-filled joyride. I'm glad it's not a round trip.

But in the midst of all the chaos and panic tonight, one thought did occur occasionally, and give me a flicker of hope: "At least I don't have to clean up dog vomit."